“What?” Mary asked.
Tears filled her sister’s eyes. “There are rumors that he has ordered our niece Marjory to be hung in a cage atop the Tower of London.”
Mary gasped. A cage? She could not believe it, even of Edward Plantagenet, the self-styled “Hammer of the Scots” and the most ruthless king in Christendom. Marjory, Robert’s daughter by their deceased sister, was only a girl. “You must be mistaken.”
Janet shook her head. “And Mary Bruce and Isabella MacDuff as well.”
God in heaven! It was almost too horrible to imagine such barbarity—against women, no less. She swallowed, but a lump of horror had lodged in her throat.
Suddenly, her sister turned to the window. “Did you hear that?”
Mary nodded, and for the second time that night her heart jumped in panic. “It sounds like horses.”
Was it too late? Had the soldiers she feared finally arrived?A cage…
The two women raced to the window of the peel tower, a square-shaped defensive structure that was common in the borders. It was dark and still pouring rain, but Mary could just make out the shadow of three riders approaching. It wasn’t until they entered the circle of torchlight below the gate, however, that she saw the familiar arms and her lungs released its vicelike hold on her breath. She heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “It’s Sir Adam.”
But the relief was short-lived. If Sir Adam was here at this time of night, there was a reason, and given her current circumstances, it probably was not a good one.
Her husband’s seneschal admitted him to the Hall a few minutes later. She barely waited for the door to close behind him before she rushed forward. “Is it true? Has Atholl been taken?”
Obviously surprised that she’d heard, he frowned. But noticing her sister behind her at the table, his surprise faded. “Lady Janet,” he said with a nod of his head. “What are you doing here?”
Before her sister could answer, Mary asked him again. “Is it true?”
As he nodded, his rough, battle-weary face sagged. Sir Adam was only forty—the same age as Atholl—but the war had aged him. As it had them all, she realized. She was only three and twenty, but sometimes she felt as if she’d lived twice as long.
“Aye, lass, it’s true. He’s being brought to Kent for trial at Canterbury.”
Mary sucked in her breath. In choosing Kent as the place of trial, King Edward was leaving little doubt of the outcome. Like many Scot nobles, Atholl had significant lands in England, including vast estates in Kent. As such he’d been forced to do homage to Edward for those lands. It was as an English subject that the Scottish earl would be tried.
She crumpled, knowing that the charming Earl of Atholl would not escape the noose this time.
She saw the knowledge reflected in Sir Adam’s face. But she also saw something else. “What is it?”
His gaze slid to her sister’s. “You shouldn’t be here, lass. You can’t let them see you.” He looked back and forth between the sisters. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d have a hard time knowing who was who.”
“Can’t letwhosee me?” Janet said, echoing Mary’s thoughts.
Sir Adam sighed and turned back to Mary. “That’s why I came. I rode ahead to prepare you. Edward has sent his men to collect you and David.”
Mary froze. She could barely get the words out. “We are being arrested?”
“Nay, nay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. The king merely wishes to see that you and Davey are provided for.”
Janet made a loud scoffing sound. “‘Provided for’? That’s an interesting way of putting it. Is he ‘providing for’ our niece Marjory as well?”
Sir Adam could not hide his repugnance. “Edward is in a rage right now, but he will reconsider when he has calmed down. I cannot believe he would see a young girl put in a cage.” His eyes met Mary’s. “The king does not blame you and David for Atholl’s actions. He knows you have been a loyal subject to him, and David is like a grandson to him, after the better part of eight years in Prince Edward’s household. You and the boy will not be in danger.”
“But what if you are wrong?” Janet said. “Would you bet my sister’s life on the whim of Edward Plantagenet’s temper?” The monarch’s apoplectic fits of rage—a legacy of his Angevin ancestors said to be descended from the Devil—were well known. Janet shook her head. “Nay, I’ve come to take her home.”
Sir Adam looked sharply at her. “Is it true, lass? Are you fleeing England?”
But Mary didn’t answer his question. She looked up at him, silently begging him to tell her the truth. “Does the king mean to make my son a prisoner in another English household?”
She saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Her chest squeezed painfully. Nine years had passed but it might have been yesterday, so sharp were the memories of having her baby ripped from her arms.
